


In Which Sherlock Listens

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, John is also ridiculous, Sherlock is ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-30
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-02 18:38:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock listens to his new flatmate's morning routine and comes up with a way to make his day more interesting.</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock Listens

_Sherlock:_

The tell-tale squeak of the boards above me announce the beginning of John's daily (well, nearly so- when I've not caused an interruption to his precious routine) work-out. I lie back on the sofa, my palms pressed together above my sternum, and listen. Fifty push-ups. Fifty crunches. It's barely six, but he's already had a small breakfast (I pretended to sleep as he fixed himself toast with jam and a cup of tea, but he looked quite content when I peeked at him) and dressed in his old military track suit. Oh, there now…what's that? Jumping jacks? No, no. More like knee-raises or some other ridiculous manoeuver. I allow myself a small smile at the image. John has been quite the athletic enthusiast of late, considering the man was limping about with the aid of a hideous hospital-issue cane a scant two weeks prior. Fascinating.

A creak at the top of the landing. I let my breath out slowly and sit up, smoothing my shirt (expensive, custom-tailored, approximately five more cleanings before I discard it, small snag near the cuff that would be near-impossible for the average person to detect but which agitates me endlessly) and adopting a very casual pose. John clomps down the stairs (his trainers annoy me with their very existence, all squeak and gauche and ugliness, but I find I'm very fond of his RAMC jumper and the way it fits across his small shoulders) and throws me a wide, genuine smile.

"Awake, then?" He's chipper, but that's not unusual. Every line of his face bespeaks his gratitude towards me; he would not be going for a run this morning, after all, if I hadn't "cured" him. Nonsense. I was only proving a point. However: while gratitude normally irritates me (unless I can use it to procure some advantage), something about John's version of gratitude sits nicely with me, like the first sip of a warm cup of tea on an autumn evening (I  _must_  stop reading John's terrible love poems; they are clearly affecting me in ways most unfortunate). I like him. The fact that this is mutual is at once alarming and incredibly intriguing.

His question is both rhetorical and stupid, so I don't answer it. Instead I settle back against the couch and watch him check the knots in his laces and stretch. "I'm going for a run," he says- obvious- and then adds, as he always does, "Need anything while I'm out?"

I have never seen reason to respond to this question, so it doesn't surprise me at all that he only waits for a half-beat before nodding (one quick, small movement, subtle, with a blink tossed in at the end for good measure) and turning to the stairs.

"A harpoon."

He pauses. I fight back a smile as I read the line of his back (he thinks I'm joking, but he knows me well enough by now that even as he thinks that he decides I'm probably not) and the mix of astonishment and amusement on his face as he turns around, one foot on the landing and one foot on the stairs.

"A harpoon?" He rubs his hand across his chin (I learned this tell quite quickly: disbelief coupled with bemusement, one of my favorites among John's various gestures) and drops his chin to look at me from under troubled brows.

My face is placid, smooth, though the corner of my mouth twitches in a shadow of a smile. I don't repeat myself, but I don't need to. He's run through it all (and swiftly: 38 seconds,  _oh John_ ) and decided 1) I am not being factitious in the least, 2) I genuinely would like him to bring home a harpoon, and 3) he is going to at least try to do as I've requested. The twitch of smile becomes the real thing; I can't recall the last time I've been so pleased with a person who wasn't dead or providing me with interesting crime scenes.

"Okay," he says slowly. He's puzzling; I read the thoughts scrolling across his face.  _Where am I supposed to buy a sodding harpoon, for God's sake? How am I supposed to get the damn thing home? Christ: how much does a harpoon even cost?_  At this I withdraw my wallet and pass it to him silently, and he rewards me a look so magnificent that I tingle with delight. No, I can't read his thoughts directly, although he sometimes imagines I can. But he's so open, so readable (most of the time; when he wants to, he can close right up and go as empty as Anderson's hollow skull, but he almost never does this unless I pry about Afghanistan or pester him just after a nightmare) that it almost seems I can.

He slips my wallet into an interior pocket of his trackie bottoms (and I'm granted access to the sounds of his keys- two for the flat: main door, our door; and one for his lockbox, which is exceedingly dull and contains only 'important documents' and other dull and pointless drivel- along with his mobile, his own wallet, and a small mp3 player that I haven't seen but deduce is an iPod shuffle by its size and heft in relation to the other items) and smiles at me. "Okay," he says again, but with much more confidence, "one harpoon, coming right up." I watch him skip down the steps (he still favors the other leg, but only just, and it's been fading more and more each day) and lie back down on the sofa, stretching my legs before crossing them. Lestrade will call me soon- I read the paper when John was done with it, I know how hopelessly out of his league he must be with this new museum burglary- but for now, I close my eyes and imagine John hunting through antique stores, inquiring of the tellers (some of whom will be older than the items they're trying to hawk) as to where he might purchase a gently-used harpoon.

x

The case is not difficult, but there are variables (a frightened witness; a perpetrator with exceptional skill in the use of throwing daggers; a car chase that results in a not-too-pleasant crash; running, and lots of it) that keep me out until nearly dawn. I enter the flat with something slightly less than my usual lithe grace and head towards the kitchen. My body might be mere transport, but it occasionally cries out for fuel and I find, tonight, that I must acquiesce. I know John did the shopping yesterday (man of routine, always does the shopping on Monday mornings) and I hope against hope that he managed to get something more sustaining than beans and Jammie Dodgers.

All this flees from my mind (or, rather, merely ducks back around a corner and awaits my return) as soon as I set eyes on the kitchen table. There it is: my prize. Wrapped in a thick red bow, the harpoon lays rusting before my eyes. It's a togglehead, probably from somewhere in the 1860's or 1870's, though I doubt John knew that when he purchased it. It is beautiful, and perfect, and I run my finger along the whalebone head with something like awe building in my chest.  _John_. There's a note tucked into the bow, and I withdraw it carefully, unfolding the paper (poor quality, economical, torn from a small notebook which I have not seen and now desperately want to discover) to find these words:

_I hope you're aware that I know bugger all about harpoons. (Who am I kidding? Of course you're aware.) This one better suit- the woman at the shop was VERY clear about her return policy. And if you actually were joking and I've just made a fool of myself, well…you're the one who's out 600 quid. So joke's on you._

_J. Watson_

I brush the lunula of my thumbnail over his name (so military- it will be three or four weeks, by my estimation, before that habit breaks and he becomes simply "John") and actually, genuinely grin. This is a remarkable ability of John's; he gives me pure, honest pleasure. A very companionable feeling stirs inside me, overriding the almost sickening hunger that gnaws at my stomach. I've been introducing John as a colleague, but that doesn't feel quite right anymore. Perhaps it's time to switch to "friend".


End file.
